At first, Verity had thought she’d catch Olivia before she entered Mr. Rochford’s lair. Pull her away before she could knock on the door, perhaps. But there were problems with that plan. Days ago, Olivia had taken Verity past the man’s small, narrow house, and a number of people, all men, had walked by in the brief time they’d lingered there. Verity couldn’t stand about in that street. Nor did she wish to argue with Olivia on the cobblestones. It would have to be inside. Olivia was always punctual. Verity would arrive at a quarter past nine.
The minutes ticked past. Verity wrote a note explaining where she was going and why, sealed it, and placed it in her jewelry box. Should anything go wrong…but it wouldn’t.
At last it was time. With her cloak over her arm, she checked the corridor outside her room, found it empty, and slipped out. She locked the bedroom door and put the key in her reticule beside the front door key their landlady had provided. Mama never used it, preferring to ring and be let in, so she hadn’t noticed its disappearance from the parlor.
Verity crept down the stairs. The front hall was empty as it always was at this time. The grandfather clock next to the stairs began to strike nine. Verity put on her cloak; the chiming covered the sound of her exit. Outside, she pulled up the hood and set off.
Some light still washed the sky on this long June day, so Verity was able to walk purposefully down the street, like a shopgirl or servant who had urgent business. No one accosted her. She followed a route she’d mapped out in her head and reached Mr. Rochford’s house precisely as planned.
There were lights in the first-floor windows. A figure appeared at one, pulling the draperies closed. Verity set her jaw and knocked sharply on the door.
After a minute, it was opened by a solemn man in black. He looked like a valet. Poised to move, Verity pushed past him and headed for the stairs. “I will see Mr. Rochford,” she said, picking up her skirts and hurrying up them.
“Miss. I beg your pardon. Miss!”
She didn’t pause. She wouldn’t be stopped. With footsteps thudding behind her, she reached the upper floor, turned toward the front of the house, calculated where she’d seen the light, and threw open a door on the left.
She’d judged correctly. Mr. Rochford was there, smoothly handsome in evening dress. He sat in an armchair, a glass of red wine and a deck of cards on the small table beside him.
Verity scanned the room. It was a masculine space, with dark wood paneling, comfortable furnishings, and crossed sabers hanging above the fireplace. It was also empty of other people. “Where is Olivia?” she demanded.
The valet burst in on her heels. “Sir, this…creature shoved right past me.”
“Where is Olivia?” Verity repeated.
“It’s all right, Pearson,” said Mr. Rochford, waving the man off.
The servant departed, shutting the door with an irritated snap.
Verity was left facing Rochford. He didn’t rise as politeness dictated. He simply looked at her, clearly amused. “Olivia?” Verity said. She’d lost her confident tone, she was unhappy to hear.
“Not here,” said Rochford. “It appears that Miss Townsend lost her nerve.” He shrugged. “Or never meant to come. She seems a chancy chit. So, no valiant rescue required.”
He was laughing at her. Verity gritted her teeth.
“Perhaps you’d care for a hand or two?” Rochford tapped the cards with a mocking smile.
“No.”
“A glass of wine then?” He picked up his wine and sipped.
Verity felt very foolish and very angry, chiefly at herself. There was nothing to do but sneak home again. She turned away.
He was suddenly behind her, his hands heavy on her shoulders. “Come, come. I deserve something for my trouble. I refused a very attractive invitation to hang about here like a mooncalf. A kiss at least, I think. Before I send you packing.” He pivoted her on the polished wooden floor. He was very strong. He smiled as he bent toward her.
Given a new target, Verity’s bad temper took control. With the side of her fist, she hit him as hard as she could, square on the nose. She knew from an unfortunate encounter with a cricket ball when she was six years old that this was a very sensitive spot.
“Ow!” Rochford jerked back, though he didn’t let her go. “You vixen.” His blue eyes watered. He shook her. Verity twisted in